Getting even
by Gaust-Wryter
Summary: What if someone actually stood up to Rachel, who's getting beat by her father ? Although surreal & violent, this writing encourages kids to take action and talk to each other about such issues...


A/N: 07/08/17 - I must admit I am fascinated with the "more realistic" Teen Titans fics out there, where Raven seems to be a beaten child. So I decided I should do one to see how I feel about it. It's different.

Plus, today, as of this writing, I feel depress and angry at the very same time. This is meant to be a one shot, because the unnamed OC resolves the whole thing. I don't rule out elaborating about repercussions. Depends on response. Be objective in your critics if you wish to critic... this is not my best work either.

And right off the bat, this is meant to encourage kids to talk more openly to each other about their personal problems and to listen to each other and not be afraid to tell and act. Too many things happening like that are remaining under silence and how can it be ever resolved if it still remains in the shadow of death ?

Rated T (13+) for violence.

Teen Titans belongs to Marv Wolfman, George Perez of DC comics and Warner Bros. Not me. Written out of fun frustration...

Thank you.

GETTING EVEN

She takes all the hits she can take because that's all she knows. She won't fight back. She can't. She's powerless. Just the way he likes it. Almost like sex... now that he can't have any.

Breathing is reason enough for the coward big, bulk, tall of a pathetic man to strike her until providence knocks the door to take her away. The wall could tell you plenty of horror stories, that'd make you chill your spine, raise all your hairs on your body and of its bruised concrete that met her body so many times over and over. It doesn't stop.

And everybody's a damn spectator, everybody's using the excuse that he's or she's powerless. Then again, not many people know.

Only Richard.

Only Victor.

Only Garfield.

Only Kori.

And me, the neighbor's lone young late-teen, whose father's craping his pants on the simple thought of what happens next door. It's a very discorded drum session. With bones and fleshes hitting the wall. More specifically, a little teenage girl's.

And the friends, don't worry. They tried, but she doesn't talk about it. It doesn't help. Just makes her more wrongs. That's all they want: to help her. But they don't know where to start.

I do. Not the best, but it's mine.

Sometimes, you gotta take actions by your own hands. And just do it. And not live to regret about it. I don't care if he's all powerful money wise and influence wise. You have to think above to understand the gravity of the situation.

She spits blood on the floor. Rachel does. She could've spited in his face, that'd still be nice after all she's suffered. This is where I had enough.

This is where I come in.

This is where I act.

I stand within the door frame, witnessing an horror story that would be third rate, second if you're lucky, in the evening news. Maybe the big story this time because it's Mr. Trigon, who's always been pissed that Rachel took her mother's name. He always took it as an insult to his manly dominance pride.

He's less than a man right now. A big 245 pounder, standing 6' 6" and he pounces a 5' 2" 101 pounds. Very manly.

The last shot cracks her jaw. I crack my fingers. I come in, uninvited.

It gets his attention. He sees all 5' 8", 185 pounds of good ol' me.

I should be afraid.

I should be the one crapping my pants, not my father or mother.

I'm not.

I've decided, come what may, that I'm gonna take course of action.

With these hands that knuckled younger and weaker jerks than him back in school, it'll knuckles him this time.

He gives me a chance to leave the house and to pretend what I've seen never happened.

Instead, I take it to crack his left orbital eye socket. And then, I take my time.

I don't care how big you are, if you're over confident and it makes you dumb, you're in for one heck of a beating.

My father once told me: if you hit someone, make sure he doesn't get up. That's what my punches testify. That's what my punches want to make sure.

I'm a drummer of my own. His vertabrae meets his bitter friend the wall. A couple of times. He doesn't believe it.

He stands on the counter, weak, trying to reach the phone. His head smashes the counter, courtesy of my fingers' grip

Rachel looks. I don't look back. Not yet. Will I ?

Surprise! Surprise! A lot of porcelain dishes over his head. I don't care what they says about porcelain: when you get a lot on your head, it hurts like hell and chances are, you're knocked out. Ask Trigon about it. "Mr." doesn't apply to one so coward.

I'm having it easy because he doesn't know what hitted him. And I'm not holding anything back.

Still in our world, buddy ? Yeah, he's trying to stand up.

They are plenty more porcelain dishes... here's some service. Bowls, glasses, plates, gang... meets head.

He's out cold. Bloody too, but nonetheless out cold. I'm sure he got his lesson. Frankly, I've done worse.

I don't need to look at the smurf (her body is covered of blues, after all) to tell she's shaking at the unexpected but bitter horror she's just seen. Shaking even must hurt her so much she was beat up.

One last for the road: a stomp kick on his head, his face on the many tiny bits of porcelain laying on the floor. I heard a small gasp in the background that'll probably echo in my head for the next few weeks to come.

A gasp I take as "thank you". It probably means something else, actually.

Rachel's smart, she knows what to do, I'm certain.

Me ? I leave the same way I got in, still not shaking – didn't even shake once – and go back to my old Stranglers earphones and "No More Heroes" in my private sanctuary on the second floor of my home, right next to hers.

In classes, they're gonna talk about it, but not in my presence. As for Rachel, I probably did her the best favor she could've ask for and she knows it. Will she thank me ? Will she talk to me ? It's not like she ever did in the first place.

All she does now is hugging her knees and cry. A cry of deliverance ? A cry of happiness ? A cry of relief ? A cry of confusion ? She cries and I don't need to be there to bear witness to it that they're tears of joy.

By then, the words I heard are "All the Shakespearoes".


End file.
